A Sister's Secret (37 page)

‘If you are recovered enough, dear Polly, then between us we shall deliver this licentious miscreant into the arms of the law,’ said Captain Burnside, and the panic-stricken Orangeman paled to whiteness.

‘I swear, ’twas the way it looked, no more,’ he said desperately. ‘If Yer Honour hands me over to the Runners, it’s meself, me own mother’s innocent son, that’ll swing at Tyburn, and not inside a week, oh Lord, but a day.’

‘You’re Irish,’ said Captain Burnside, as if he had only just deduced this.

‘So I am, sir, but no papist. I’m an Orangeman, and
swear there’s none more loyal to the King. ’Tis God’s truth.’

‘A likely story,’ said Captain Burnside sternly. ‘I’ll bandy no more words with you, but send my young lady to—’

‘Yer Grace, ye’d not do that which would hang an innocent man, Joseph Maguire meself, who’s a faithful subject of His Protestant Majesty, King George.’

‘Faithful subject?’ said Captain Burnside scathingly. ‘Do you dare to suggest His Majesty would accept a libertine as faithful?’ He was wearing Mr Maguire down. ‘You may mock me, reptile, and make your case no better than it is, but you mock His Majesty at your peril.’

‘Henry,’ said Betsy, ‘am I to go?’

‘No, I beg,’ gasped the unfortunate Mr Maguire, ‘carry a message to His Protestant Highness, the Duke of Cumberland, for me. His own royal self will speak for me.’

‘His own royal self will watch you topped,’ said the captain. ‘Go on your way, Polly.’

‘No!’ gasped Mr Maguire. ‘’Tis meself that’s a boon and a blessing to the royal family, and can prove it, so I can.’

‘What’s that you say?’ asked the captain curtly.

‘True it is, sir, I swear.’

‘Is it possible there’s something in your favour that may mitigate your heinous sin of attempted ravishment?’ asked the captain, frowning.

‘No sin was in my mind, Yer Honour, but if it will make Yer Honour forget it looked like sin, and Yer Honour being a servant of the law and His Majesty accordingly, I’ll give ye that truth, though I’ve been sworn to silence.’

Captain Burnside took on the look of a servant of the law giving due and fair consideration to the plea, while the unhappy Mr Maguire looked at him in hope.

‘Polly, my dear,’ said the captain eventually, ‘pray wait outside.’

‘Oh, I’ll be glad to,’ said Betsy fervently, ‘I be all of a quiver in here.’

‘I’ll not keep you waiting long, I hope,’ said the captain, and Betsy went out to wait on the landing, leaving him alone with the Orangeman who, psychologically bruised and battered, seemed to be in hope that he could save his neck. It was all of a puzzle to Betsy, save that she knew by now that her gentleman friend worked in ways mysterious, and she could not but admire his performance.

Among other things, Mr Maguire confided he was being guarded and watched by a man lodging in the house immediately opposite. Mr Erzburger had said it was for his own protection. Accordingly, when Captain Burnside emerged into the street with Betsy, he glanced casually about. If there were eyes watching him, he could not determine them. But as he and Betsy approached the corner of the street, a man carrying a jug of ale appeared. He turned into the street. He gave the captain and Betsy an interested look. The interest was mainly in Betsy’s gauzy gown. He was full of drink, his face mottled with it. The captain and Betsy turned into the lane. They saw their cabbie waiting, standing beside his horse. The captain stopped, retraced his steps to the corner of the street, and took a discreet look. The man with the jug entered the house opposite that in which Mr Maguire was lodging. Luck, thought the captain, had played its part. While he and Betsy had been with the Orangeman, his watchdog, deserting his post for a spell, had been in a tavern.

The cabbie drove his passengers to Vauxhall Gardens, where he was generously paid off. There, Betsy took refreshments with her audacious and pleasurable
gentleman in the pavilion. She was almost too breathless to pay proper attention to her food, though she drank wine thirstily. She was breathless from her own performance in helping to reduce that poor little Irishman to a frightened wreck, breathless in her intense curiosity to know why it had had to be done, and breathless, finally, in being in these Arcadian surroundings with her gentleman, and among members of the quality. Her gentleman assured her that what had had to be done to Mr Maguire was for the good of the King’s realm, and also for the good of Mr Maguire himself. It was not necessary for Betsy to know more than that; it was sufficient for her to understand that their arrival in Mr Maguire’s life had probably saved it.

‘Saved his life?’ Betsy gulped more wine. ‘Oh, it’s all razzle, dazzle and fourpenny ones to me, sir.’

‘You have my permission, and His Majesty’s, to forget all about it. Not a word, puss.’

‘His Majesty?’ Betsy looked awestruck. ‘Oh, I never did know a gentleman more flummoxing than you.’ But since she could be the essence of discreet silence when silence was so gainful, she declared an oath of dumbness. Her fine gentleman was as rewarding as the golden goose. ‘You be giving me the guineas now, sir?’

‘Now, Betsy? Here?’ Captain Burnside shook his head at her. ‘Do you wish the lords and ladies to see you accepting money from me across the table? It would at once change you in their eyes from a shy young lady of sweet innocence to a trollop.’

Betsy was so overcome by her faux pas that the blush mantling her cheeks was a true one. The bright, colourful pavilion was full of ladies and gentlemen spending as much time studying their neighbours as pecking at their food.

‘Sir, I’m a good girl, liking pleasuring, that’s all.’

‘Why, of course,’ said the captain kindly, ‘and I shouldn’t have been allowed to make an accomplice of a trollop. Eat your food now, and drink up your wine.’ He refilled her glass, and not for the first time. ‘The wine, pretty kitten, will bring you to well-being. You have my fond regard, you deserve well-being, and I shall see that you come to it.’

‘Nor don’t I mind coming to kissing with you,’ said Betsy, ‘for I never did meet any gentleman more kind, or who said nicer things to me.’ She filled her mouth with food and washed it down with more wine, all under her kind gentleman’s encouraging eye.

After the meal, he took her to a restful alcove in the Gardens, leafily screened from prying eyes. The strains of orchestral music reached their ears. Betsy, in wine-induced languor, reposed in pretty sleepiness amongst the cushions on a long cane chaise longue. Well-being had arrived. But if her lids were heavy, her lips, still dewy from wine, were wakefully expectant of kisses.

‘Your guineas, Betsy,’ murmured the captain, and that caused her to lift her lids in delight. Five golden guineas spilled into her eager hand.

Saucily, she drew her gown up to her waist, uncovering her Sunday pantaloons, their delicate lace frills threaded with pink ribbons. She slipped the coins into the waist pocket of the pantaloons, then wound her arms around her gentleman’s neck and kissed him dreamily on the mouth. ‘Oh, you be a delight to a girl,’ she whispered.

‘The gold given was gold earned, Betsy,’ he said, and he drew her gown back into place, covering up her limbs.

Betsy’s sleepy lids blinked. ‘But I don’t mind,’ she said, ‘not if it be a pleasure to you to look.’

‘I’m sure you don’t mind, puss, but pleasuring ain’t
encouraged in the Gardens, d’you see. I ain’t inclined to let you be disapproved of.’

Betsy, reclining in the dreaminess of well-being, gazed up at him. He smiled, waiting for the wine to send her to sleep. Betsy, with her fondness for cuddling and kissing, would be less of a problem asleep.

‘Sir,’ she murmured, ‘I be full of sweet feelings.’ A little true colour touched her again. ‘It’s not the guineas, nor that you be such a pleasure to a girl; it be you, sir. Even if you go hammer and tongs together, you and your lady wife, like married couples do sometimes, I be certain sure she be glad to be your wife. Sir, you don’t mind I’ve come to love you?’

‘Betsy, you’re dreaming. But dream on, puss.’

Betsy sighed, her eyes closed and she stretched. The warmth of the day and the wine she had taken drew her into bliss. People sauntered by on the other side of the leafy screen. The Gardens were murmurous with the faint sounds of music, the soft laughter of ladies and the lazy hum of July.

She fell asleep. Captain Burnside smiled. The wine had taken care of Betsy.

The George Inn at Winchester, a highly respectable and most comfortable hostelry, was noted for the excellent service it offered to ladies and gentlemen of the quality. That afternoon it received Lady Clarence Percival and her sister, Miss Annabelle Howard, with much courtesy, providing for them adjoining rooms well appointed and welcomingly cool. Supper, mine host ventured to say, was at six thirty, and there was to be a music recital in the guests’ lounge later in the evening.

With Annabelle taking a little rest after the long journey, Caroline went in search of Sammy. She found him in the carriage yard. She required him, she said, to find the location of the grace-and-favour residences in which lived retired members of the clergy or their widows, and to discover which one housed Mrs Burnside, widow of a deceased bishop.

‘Right, Your Ladyship, very good,’ said Sammy, asking no questions.

‘Convey the information only to me, Sammy.’

‘That I will, yes’m,’ said Sammy.

He did not take long. He was an intelligent youth.

After a most satisfying supper, during which Caroline
with her superb looks and Annabelle with her vivacious prettiness received many glances of interest from other guests, Caroline advised her sister she was going out on a little matter of business.

‘Business, sister? Here, in Winchester?’

‘Yes, here, Annabelle, in Winchester. I will join you in the music room later. I did say there was a person I wished to see.’

‘Yes, but I thought we were to visit the cathedral and enjoy the shops,’ said Annabelle.

‘We will do that tomorrow morning,’ said Caroline, ‘before we depart at midday.’

‘I vow I shall be dreadfully bored if I have to sit and listen to music by myself,’ said Annabelle.

‘And I vow, dearest sister, it is time you stopped being bored unless Cumberland is within reach. Be thankful you are not within
his
reach. Now, I am sure I shan’t be long, but, if you become truly bored, then pray entertain yourself by writing a letter to our parents.’

A middle-aged lady, servant and companion to Mrs Honoria Burnside, answered Caroline’s knock on the little white door of the apartment near the cathedral.

‘Good evening,’ said Caroline.

The servant, recognizing quality, dipped a knee and said, ‘Good evening, madam, may I help you?’

‘I am Lady Clarence Percival, and I should consider it most helpful if you would present my compliments to Mrs Burnside and ask her if she would be kind enough to give me a few moments of her time. If she has visitors, then perhaps I might venture to call again, say tomorrow morning?’

‘Madam has no visitors, Your Ladyship,’ said the servant. ‘Will you please step in, and I will ask her if she
will receive you.’ She took Caroline into a charming little sitting room, delicate with light colours and graceful furniture. She begged Her Ladyship to seat herself, then went to speak to Mrs Burnside.

Mrs Burnside entered the room a minute later. Caroline had rather imagined she would be stately of form and carriage, but Mrs Burnside was petite and still with a hint of girlish prettiness. In her early fifties, she wore a widow’s cap on her brown hair, and a black silk gown graced her slim figure. She advanced in brisk fashion, a smile on her face, her hazel eyes clearly showing interest. Caroline came to her feet.

‘Mrs Burnside?’ she said, and Mrs Burnside, who might have been a ladyship herself had her husband not passed away while still in office, regarded the widow of Lord Clarence Percival with distinct approval. In an evening cloak of emerald silk and a feathered turban, Caroline did not look less than her usual magnificent self.

‘Yes, I am Mrs Burnside, Mrs Honoria Burnside. I am advised you are Lady Clarence Percival.’ Her voice was a sweet lightness. ‘I am intrigued by your visit.’

‘You must forgive me in that I gave you no notice,’ said Caroline, ‘but, finding myself in Winchester for a brief stay, I felt I should like to see you.’

‘Please, do sit down,’ said Mrs Burnside, and both ladies rustlingly seated themselves.

‘I have, you see, recently made the acquaintance of your son Charles,’ said Caroline.

‘Charles?’ Mrs Burnside looked most intrigued. Young at heart, she had a liveliness about her. ‘Charles?’

‘Yes,’ said Caroline, slightly tentative.

‘Dear me, dear me,’ said Mrs Burnside, which Caroline at once took to mean Captain Burnside’s mother was well
aware he could not be considered England’s worthiest citizen.

‘Oh, I assure you, madam, I have found much good in him,’ she said, and her warm voice, with its lingering Southern lilt, came delightfully to Mrs Burnside’s ears, although the implication of the comment somewhat puzzled her.

‘I cannot refrain from asking if that means you have also found him a little wanting,’ she smiled.

‘Oh, do believe me, I am not so critical as to expect perfection in any human being,’ said Caroline earnestly, ‘for I cannot find perfection in myself, nor ever will.’

‘As to that,’ said Mrs Burnside, ‘my dear husband, the bishop, always declared that while perfection may be coveted, a lack of it in some people can be quite endearing. Weakness is very human.’

‘Alas,’ sighed Caroline.

‘Alas?’ Mrs Burnside was even more intrigued.

‘It is all too true, is it not, Mrs Burnside, that some ladies find the weaknesses of some gentlemen foolishly endearing?’ said Caroline, thinking of herself and Lord Clarence, and of Annabelle and Cumberland.

‘Oh, dear me,’ said Mrs Burnside, ‘I would hope not to be so foolish myself as to value any gentleman more for his weaknesses than his virtues.’

‘That is of all things a most sensible outlook,’ said Caroline. ‘It is far wiser, I am sure, to help a man set aside his failings and to encourage development of his better self.’